this is my confession

coming clean thanks to usher

ushers confessions, pt 2 has been stuck in my head for a week. specifically this part -

“these are my confessions
just when i thought i said all i can say
my chick on the side said she got one on the way
these are my confessions
man, i'm throwed and i don't know what to do
i guess i gotta give you part two of my confessions”

and that’s because i don’t know the rest of the song. having these lyrics on repeat in my head got me thinking about confessions. remember the scene in a league of their own when madonna’s character goes into the confessional and says something so provocative the priest drops the bible? or the episode of seinfeld where jerry goes to confession to tattle on a doctor who has converted to judiasim - only for the jokes? and then, i started thinking about myself. did i have anything to own up to? what secrets am i carrying?

one thing came to mind. i’ve never fessed up to this and still feel fragments of guilt about it - there is only one thing to do - i guess i gotta give you, part one of my confession.

i’ve held this secret in since i was about 9 years old. that’s like 27 years - and now, thanks to usher - i feel it’s time to come clean.

it happened in the 3rd grade. my teacher was a woman named mrs. sherwood. her face always contorted like she was cursed with having to permanently smell rotten egg. her frame was long and lean and she kept her straight gray hair trimmed right above her chin. she had long fingers for pointing - at you. she dressed in black, gray or beige and wore medical looking shoes. i imagined that if she could go back in time, she’d have fit in perfectly with the strict nuns my father told me about from his boyhood elementary school days. 

the desks were configured into groups of four - so you had a person next to you, directly across from you and on the diagonal. i liked the little cluster set up in comparison to my second grade - forward facing desk position. for 23 eight and nine year olds, our classroom was unusually clean and sparsely decorated. but sherwood ran a tight ship. the only area of fun in the room was a corner she called “the museum” - a place where one could look - but never touch.   

i sat with my back to the museum and each monday mrs. sherwood would bring things in from (i assume) her “real” life to put on display for us. she’d add an item and there it would remain on a white table for us to gaze at, never touch. it gave trunchbulls’, “much too good for children,” energy. 

one monday she stood before us with a black box in her hands. as we did every morning, we recited the lords’ prayer, pledged allegiance to the flag and then took our seats. “it’s time to add something to our class museum.” she removed the lid from the box. i was curious - the mysterious black box was unlike anything she’d ever presented. i wondered what was inside. she placed the box down on her podium, reached inside, and carefully pulled out the shed skin off a snake. it was still in one piece. how she happen upon this fascinating specimen?1 did mrs sherwood own snakes?! did she buy it from an exotic molted snake skin dealer?! did a feral cat bring it to her?! “very rare. very delicate” she mused. 

she gingerly placed the gauzy, almost translucent coiled dermis on the table. “snakes shed their skin monthly. they rub against rough surfaces in order to do so. and the skin is much longer than the snake itself. it’s highly unusual to get a full, un-torn skin.”

“very rare. very delicate.” photo: alamy.com

i was reminded of my 5th birthday - a reptile party. my father held a boa constrictor around his shoulders, like britney spears would years later at the VMA’s. i needed to get a closer look. i stood up from my seat, but mrs. sherwood snapped at me to sit back down. the other untouchables had never interested me as much - a bug in amber, a fossil, an empire state building built out of toothpicks - boring in comparison to the snake skin. 

our morning lessons carried on until recess. we were instructed to grab our snacks, line up and get ready to head to the yard. walking to the yard unattended was a third grade privilege. i reached the yard and ran to line up for a handball game, but realized i’d left my snack in my desk — a nature valley crunchy oat’s n honey granola bar - my mom used to buy them in bulk at smart&final. going back to the classroom wasn’t allowed, but the yard teacher took pity on me - “make it fast!”

i sprinted across the yard and back inside and down the hall - the laces of my black and white adidas fluttered against my ankles. i opened the classroom door. total silence. being alone in the classroom was a thrill. i took my time walking to my desk and finding my snack. as i turned to head out, a glimmer of light caught the corner of my eye. i walked over the museum table and looked down at the snake skin. The pattern of the scales reminded me of a long, silver, fishnet stocking. i could make out the snake’s head and tail. it was so cool. i wanted to touch it. just one touch. what could it hurt? i knew how to be gentle - i had a little sister. i was just going to quickly feel it and then go back to the yard. i put my granola bar down on the table and softly stroked the skin with my index finger. it felt like my own skin when it peeled after a sunburn. before i could stop myself i picked it up with both hands. it felt rough and delicate, scaly but smooth. i lifted it up to the light like rafiki lifting simba and then - it broke. SHIT! i dropped the skin, both pieces floating down to the table like feathers dancing in the wind. i tried to position them back together, placing everything exactly as it was, but with every touch the flimsy skin was further dissolving before my eyes. 

a snake skin ruiner + her baby sis

i ran back to the yard with a pit in my stomach. i didn’t eat my granola bar or play handball. i crossed my fingers and wished for mrs. sherwood to never notice the damage. the whistle blew - recess was over. we filtered back into the classroom. mrs. sherwood was standing in front of the white board, glaring at us, arms crossed, one of her thin silver eyebrows raised high. DOUBLE SHIT!

we took our seats and she wasted no time, “who touched the snake skin?” no one moved. “i asked a question. the snake skin has been torn - who is responsible for this?” silence. as each soundless second passed, the heat in my cheeks grew hotter. i couldn’t look up so i examined the lines and creases in my thumb. finally, “no one has anything to say? alright then! 100 standards for all of you!” the class let out a groan as she started writing a sentence on the board. as i pulled out my notebook i attempted to do the mental math of figuring out how many more days were left of 3rd grade. i gave up and thought about 6th grade. only three more years until 6th grade - where i’ll get to graduate and leave this school forever! i could do this. 

when the final bell rang that day i felt instant relief. i had gotten through day one of snakeskin secret holding. needles to say i had no idea i’d carry my transgression for the next 27 years. i still see mrs. sherwood from time to time and consider throwing myself before her and from a bent knee saying, “it was me! i’m the one responsible for touching and tearing the snakeskin!!!” - i never do. i have a strong sense she wouldn’t recognize me and it would just get awkward.

so instead here i am - thanks to having an usher song being stuck in my head - confessing my sin and still wondering, how the hell she got that snakeskin. 

i hope this may inspire you to confess - or let go - something you’ve been carrying!